


Yours

by forgetcanon



Series: race to die first [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords
Genre: AU, D/s elements, F/M, Sith Shenanigans, fearkink, read note for further warnings, take care of yourself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3424055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgetcanon/pseuds/forgetcanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'If she doesn’t like my answer,' Jaq thought giddily, 'she could kill me right here, just close her hand and-'</p><p>AU where the Exile becomes a Sith Lord alongside Revan and Malak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours

**Author's Note:**

> This fic incorporates some fear!kink. Atton also kind of idealizes the idea that Tiniat could literally kill him. There are D/s elements and proper aftercare, but there's no boundaries set beforehand. Atton's very into it, but if that's not your thing, be careful.
> 
> It's also the beginning of a relationship between a Sith master and apprentice, which has its own background of potential squick. Again, be careful.

_"Do you have any idea what I was, before I met you?” he spat._

_She turned away, moving towards her desk. “Unless it interferes in your training or your duties, I don’t care. Is that all?”_

_He stared at her, sitting calmly behind her desk like nothing happened. She’s already thinking about what needs to be done today. She’s already put it out of her mind._

_“Yes, my lord,” he managed._

She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care.

_He can live with that._

* * *

She’s frustrated. Hell, Jaq is, too. They’ve been scraping their teeth on Manaan for almost two years. Despite the people they’ve got in their pocket, the Republic always manages to keep up. Intelligence and Coercion are doing what they can to damage the Republic, but unless they make a major breakthrough within the next few months, the Empire might have to take more drastic measures.

Darth Sol _hates_ drastic measures.

So today, she waves away his lightsaber and pulls a pair of practice blades off the wall and tosses one to him.

“Any lesson plan for today?” Jaq asks, rolling his shoulders. He’s not sure he likes the glint in her eye.

“Yes,” Sol snaps. “Live."

Without warming up, she attacks.

One of her primary lessons is this: Your lightsaber is not your weapon. Your sword is not your weapon. The Force is not your weapon. _You_ are your weapon. Today, she's using every weapon at her disposal. 

Jaq curses as he deflects her blows. He’s fast, but that’s no advantage when she’s just as fast as he is, and stronger. Most days, she’s at least trying to _teach_ him. To hone her blade, not break him.

She might have abandoned that theory.

When they lock blades, she looks him straight in the eyes, brown to grey. “How have you even managed to survive this long?” she demands.

“Luck?” Jaq spins out of the lock, kicking at her feet. She springs back, but she’s on him again in an instant. “I’m- ah- an assassin, Master, not a- oof!”

She tosses him against the wall with a flick of her wrist. “An assassin, Jaq? You’re my chief of security and my apprentice.” She’s still moving towards him as she speaks. Jaq reaches out for his blade with the Force.

“If we are attacked, it’s your responsibility to ensure that I live!”

Jaq tries to angle away from her, to get the wall out from behind his back so he has somewhere to fall back to. She steps with him.

“How can I be sure you’ll do that, if you fail so pathetically in the training room?"

He rushes forward. Sol holds her ground against his opening moves, blade matching his easily. She knows him too well- but he knows her, too. And she’s not holding back today, so neither will he.

When she draws back to strike with the Force, Jaq turns and lashes out with his elbow. It catches her on the collarbone, not the neck, but Sol hisses and stumbles back.

“Good,” she says, breathing hard. “You _can_ be taught."

“I’d die before anyone touched you,” Jaq replies.

“And you’ll die quickly,” Sol says sharply. “And on the day you decide you’re done with my orders?"

Jaq shakes his head. “I’ll die before that, too."

And she attacks again, more measured this time, and therefore more dangerous.

The blunted practice blades are just that- _blunted_. They can still draw blood, and they can definitely bruise. In the space of ten minutes, Jaq has been tagged on each of his limbs at least once. His practice robe is ripped where he managed to ensnare her blade. She’s disarmed him twice.

In contrast, he’s barely touched her. Her collarbone is fine. Any blows that make it past her guard are glancing.

He’s tiring.

She disarms him once more and tosses her own blade aside with it. Jaq’s moment of confusion- _are we done?_ \- ends when she aims a punch straight at his gut.

He dances out of reach, deflects another blow with his arm, but he’s too slow to evade her vicious kick at his knee. 

He crumples, cursing, and she’s on him before he can push her back with the Force. She grabs him by the hair and pulls him over her knee, threading her other leg between his and sitting down hard. His arms are free, but she has her hand around his throat. She doesn’t squeeze yet- she wants to talk. He lets his arms hang, breathing hard.

“You’re not fighting me,” she says dangerously.

“I can’t scratch your face,” Jaq wheezes. “The PR team would kill me and leave behind a very embarrassing corpse."

“Not just this.” Her hand twists in his hair. Her fingers flex around his throat. Jaq bites back a yelp. “I’ve seen you do better."

“Same, reason."

“And it’s been three months since I refused you, but you’ve made no moves to try again, convince me, or sabotage me."

Jaq freezes. “Is that _that_ this is about?"

“I want to know _why_.”

The way she’s bending him, he can’t see her face. She almost sounds confused. Almost sounds angry. He can’t tell.

“Why _what_?”

And he knows he sounds desperate. He thought that was the right thing- ignore what he tried to do, ignore that she turned him down, and keep following orders. Maybe that’s what makes her pause.

“Tell me,” his Master says at last. “What _were_ you, before you met me?"

It takes Jaq a moment to catch on. It’s hard to think, with the ache in his knee and her fingers dragging back his head. Her fingers flex idly on his exposed throat.

 _If she doesn’t like my answer,_ Jaq thought giddily, _she could kill me right here, just close her hand and-_

“I was nothing,” he gasps. “I was nothing before I met you, I was an assassin and a coward and-"

Her fingers tighten. _This is it,_  Jaq thinks. He whimpers. His fingers flutter uselessly on the ground. His hips jerk.

She doesn’t hold him hard enough to bruise. Her grip is barely even hard enough to strain his breathing. He can’t see her, he doesn’t know what she’s thinking, he’s never been more exposed in his life.

The hand on his throat disappears. The hand in his hair tugs his head back further. Jaq’s boots scrabble at the training pads as he arches, trying to find some relief from the sharp pain in his neck and scalp.

Her nail runs down his neck, from his jaw to his collarbone, tracing his thudding artery. “If you were nothing, then,” she says, “What are you now?” Her voice is as calm and curious as it is when she addresses a diplomat, or asks him how a mission went.

Her nail doesn’t stop. He’s not wearing an undershirt under his training robe. She follows the edge of it. It’s not loose, not enough to be even remotely revealing, but she’s barely ever touched him outside of training. She’s pressing hard enough that Jaq knows he’ll be marked. The sharp pain is a welcome price.

“Yours,” he says. He doesn’t know what she was expecting, but her nail pauses, digging into his chest. “Yours, Sol."

“What do you _mean_?”

“ _Yours_ ,” Jaq insists. “Fuck me, strangle me, toss me aside- I’m yours, Sol."

He knows this is dangerous. She warned him off once, and Sol believes in giving only one warning. Maybe she’ll drop him in disgust, leave him hard and aching on the training mats. Maybe she’ll torture him, break him of this, make him hate her. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.

The hand in his hair loosens, then tightens again as she gets a stronger grip. He’s not certain how she undoes the belts of his robes with one hand, but they fall open and her cool hand caresses his shuddering chest. He can’t see her face, but he knows she’s looking. His training tights are tight. She can see exactly how hard this is making him. He chokes back a whimper.

“You’re lucky.” Her voice is low and quiet. “You’re mine. And I take good care of what’s mine."

She touches him through his tights, too impatient to take them off him and too wary of making a mess on the mats. It doesn’t take much. His sheer relief is almost as intoxicating as the orgasm itself. She talks him through it but barely remembers what she says, only snippets- “Space, pet, you bruise like a peach.” “Yes, yes, like that, just like that, you’re doing _so well-_ "

He arches into her touch long after he’s come, long after it’s oversensitive and sticky and much too much. She waits until he’s started to teeter before she lets him down to the mats.

She unwinds her leg from his, careful of his knee, and draws his head into her lap. With one hand she gently rubs his aching neck. Her other hand caresses his chest until he’s stopped shuddering. He doesn’t dare move. He doesn’t want this to end.

But he’s getting cold with his robes open. Sol’s stopped massaging his neck and plays idly with his hair, instead.

He opens his eyes slowly. Sol smiles slightly. “There you are."

“Right,” Jaq says cautiously. If it’s over, she’s going to stop touching him soon.

“Comfortable?” she asks.

Jaq makes the mistake of shifting and winces. The mess in his tights is definitely not comfortable. Neither is the knee she kicked. Sol chuckles.

He honestly doesn’t remember the last time he’s heard her laugh. Her eyes haven’t looked so clear since she killed Malak. 

“I’m comfortable enough,” Jaq says.

Sol looks very nearly fond as she strokes his cheek. “No you’re not. Up, Jaq. Drink some water, take a shower. Get an ice pack for your knee. Dinner is in an hour. We’ll talk."

Jaq bites back a childish, ‘Do we _have_ to?’ “About what?"

“For one thing, _you’re_ not done.” Her eyes flash wickedly. 

Sol taps his shoulder- a final warning to sit up or be dumped. Jaq sits, trying to move his hips as little as possible. Sol helps him fasten his robes, which is surprising but very welcome. He isn’t sure what he’ll do when he actually has to leave her presence. He still can’t believe that just happened.

Sol helps him to his feet, too, then steps away to pick up their fallen practice blades. “Go, Jaq. I’ll clean up in here. Water, shower, ice pack, dinner. _Go_."

It’s easier than he thought it would be, with the specter of her orders hanging over him.

Back in his quarters, he examines the fading line her nail left on his chest. He wonders if he can convince her to make another. He wonders if that’s on the table. He wonders if she’ll even need convincing.

He wonders exactly how she plans to make him make up for not paying her any attention. He shivers.

 _We’ll talk,_ she said.

He’s very nearly looking forward to it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, just leave me here on my trash heap, where I belong. 
> 
> The idea behind this AU is that my Exile, Tiniat Soleria, was never sent to Malachor. A different Jedi Knight, my Queen Asshole Inyl Vorn (otherwise known as my DSF, no-influence Exile) was sent instead, and died with everyone else there.
> 
> Tiniat finds a very curious assassin among Revan's squads before the Jedi manages to warn him of his fate. Because of Jaq's unique talents, Tiniat takes him on as her apprentice and personal guard. After she shows him the Force, Jaq is kind of obsessed with her.
> 
> The Jedi and Malak take out Revan. Tiniat kills Malak, partly for betraying Revan and partly to consolidate power. This fic begins a few months after that.
> 
> ...that was a lot of explanation for a fic that can basically be summed up as "Atton has a massive fearkink and Tiniat is only too happy to oblige him."


End file.
